


dead or alive (unspecified)

by flirtygaybrit



Category: Batman: Arkham (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crime Fighting, M/M, Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-07 18:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12846603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtygaybrit/pseuds/flirtygaybrit
Summary: Slade rarely comes looking for a fight without good reason. Even with the promise of payment, he always seems to want something more. This time, he appears to want the satisfaction of seeing Bruce worked up. He's toyed with Bruce this way before, but it's never been about the fight. It’s about what happensafterthe fight. He doesn’t want Bruce to leave. He just wants to know that Bruce is willing to submit to him.





	dead or alive (unspecified)

Gotham is on fire, and Bruce is going in the opposite direction.

More specifically, he's sprinting across the third-story rooftop of Koul-Brau Breweries. Several blocks away, flames and smoke rise into the air, blocking out the moon and the night sky. The flashing lights of the GCPD and GCFD seem to be coming from all around him, their sirens rising in the air like a song that echoes through downtown Gotham. Bruce is already tuned into their comm channels and knows that traffic is being rerouted to make room for the emergency responders at the base of the tower. Soon reporters will arrive on scene and helicopters will circle overhead like vultures waiting to peck at the carcass. Bruce plans to be as far away as possible when they arrive.

A few minutes ago, an explosion had carved a hole in the glass side of the lavish Lacey Towers, a glass tower with luxury housing. From what he can see, the explosion appears to have hollowed out at least one of the deluxe suites within, and glass panes have been blown out around the perimeter of the wound, leaving jagged, blackened edges. The incident is little more than a blur in his mind; while he'd been occupied with a mission of his own, the blast had caught Bruce off-guard, and his initial reaction had been to go toward the blast to search for survivors. Upon seeing the flames licking up the side of the building, and with Alfred's warnings in his ear, he'd hesitated. Even now the tower's wound is still fresh and smoking. Attempting to sneak in before the fire department has put out the fire and evacuated the building will render scene reconstruction impossible, and might even place him in the path of danger. He'll need to wait until the ashes have cooled and make his return to search for clues.

"An explosion of that magnitude could have toppled the tower," Alfred says in his ear, solemn. "Those poor souls. I do hope nobody was injured."

Bruce aims his grapnel gun at the building next to him and leaps from the roof of the brewery. The thin wire shoots upward, its hook swiftly embedding itself in the sturdy stone handrail of the roof above. The winding mechanism begins to retract and takes up the slack in his muscles and joints, threading tension through his arm before pulling him toward the fixed point on the roof. Bruce hoists himself easily over the handrail, already seeking higher ground so that he can survey the scene from afar.

"If the blast had been centered lower, the entire tower could have been lost. Do we know who lived in the suite?"

Alfred pauses for only a second. "Based on the origin of the blast, it appears that the explosive may have been detonated in a suit belonging to... ah. A Mr. Roman Sionis. Is there any reason somebody might be targeting Mr. Sionis' residence now?"

Bruce makes his way to the far side of the roof and grimaces at the skyscrapers flanking the Coventry. Thick black smoke has already billowed high into the air, drifting over Gotham's tallest buildings like a morning fog. "Don't know. Sionis hasn't been active in months, not since the incident that went public with the GCPD." 

"I imagine he still has debts to be repaid," Alfred says. "Perhaps Falcone has finally decided he wants revenge for the money he lost from the rogue officers..."

Bruce curls his fingers over the handrail and frowns at the thought. "Falcone doesn’t have any connection to these suites. It could be anybody. We need to make sure this was an isolated incident."

"I hope it is. As for the culprit, you may have to wait a day or two to find out, sir. The police won't take kindly to any visitors before they've had a chance to examine the scene. And we don't know that the person responsible isn't waiting nearby."

"Then I'll wait until the scene is clear." Bruce hesitates before looking away from the carnage, narrowing his eyes in focus and turning his gaze instead to the buildings below. The cowl's audio sensors are detecting activity somewhere in his vicinity; once he's tuned out the sirens and usual street chatter, Bruce manages to hone in on the amplified and distinctive friction-whine of a wire recoiling behind him. Without augmented senses, he might never have picked it up.

"That's probably for the best," Alfred agrees, seemingly oblivious.

Bruce doesn't respond. Very few people are actually capable of sneaking up on him, and the few who can are smart enough not to. Whoever it is, he doubts they're looking for a friendly conversation.

Bruce straightens and turns. His company has already crossed over half of the roof without his detection, and he doesn't appear to be concerned about secrecy. He walks with confidence, masked head held high. Even in the dark, there's no mistaking the broad shoulders and twin sword hilts crossed on his back.

"Slade."

Alfred takes a breath. "Slade? _Slade Wilson_? Why on earth—?"

"Domestic terrorism doesn't look good on anybody," Bruce says, addressing Slade now. "Not even you. Did someone provide the fireworks for you, or was this always meant to be a public display?"

Slade's head tilts. From here, Bruce can still see the way his gaze flits to the tower in the distance. This isn't Slade's usual style; Bruce doubts that he's responsible for the attack, but it doesn't mean that he won't use the distraction to his advantage.

"Come now, detective, you know me better than that. You think I would endanger the lives of the people living in that tower?"

"You'd do anything for a price," Bruce says. "And I know that collateral damage matters to you. Was there a bounty on Black Mask's head, or were you aiming for somebody else?" He keeps one hand near his belt in case he has to produce a distraction of his own. One hand is all he can spare—with Slade, he has to be prepared for anything.

Slade chuckles, but Bruce would bet anything that Slade isn't smiling at all beneath the mask. His voice is silky, honey-sweet, and can be utterly disarming under the proper circumstances. If Bruce weren't so familiar with Slade, and if a superhuman assassin armed with swords, firearms, and a numerous other weapons didn't set off so many red flags, Bruce might almost consider relaxing. Granted, Slade hasn't yet reached for a weapon, but Bruce knows that peace never lasts long. "Do you think setting that ugly thing ablaze was my doing? You know better than most how money changes hands in this city... and you know no price is worth that spectacle."

Bruce's fingers inch closer to his belt. Slade's gaze is fixed on his face now, but his body language is relaxed. Maybe he's confident that Bruce won't try to apprehend him. Maybe he believes that he'll emerge the victor no matter what happens here. "So the explosion was a distraction. The bounty is on someone else's head. You wouldn't be here otherwise."

Slade takes a slow step forward. Bruce rests his hand directly on one of the compartments of his utility belt. It won't make a difference if Slade sees him preparing for a fight. "Stop there, Slade. I need to know what you know. If someone's put out a bounty, you need to tell me."

Slade doesn't stop. He's several meters away now, and he walks with careful, deliberate steps. His boots hardly make a sound on the stone. "You shouldn't be on edge, Batman. If you wind yourself tighter, you might snap."

He still hasn't drawn a weapon, a fact that seems uncharacteristic to Bruce. Though always deliberate and precise, Slade rarely takes pleasure in drawing out the kill. He also doesn't tend toward flowery monologues or idle chatter. Slade prides himself on quickness and efficiency, a snake's strike. It's unlike him to savour the chase. There may be a small chance that he's not here to kill Bruce after all.

"What do you want, Slade? Who sent you?"

"You know too well what I want," Slade says. He takes another step forward. Bruce's fingers close over the razor edge of a batarang. "See? You feel it already, don't you? Your heart is pounding, preparing you for action... your senses have heightened... your blood is flowing in anticipation... there's nothing like the thrill of danger to arouse the mind and body."

Bruce wonders if Slade has ever given his victims a speech like this. He can't imagine how a conversation like that would be received. Cautious, he remains still and watches Slade lift a hand and reach for the hilt of a sword behind his back.

Business as usual, then.

"I'll give you one more chance to tell me who's putting coins in your pocket. Now."

The metallic sound of a sword being unsheathed underscores Bruce's last word. If Slade wasn't smiling before, he must be now.

"If you don't believe me, I'll have to show you myself," Slade says. He raises his sword with the deliberate confidence of a warrior who has already won, but Bruce doesn't plan to let Slade strike first. He pitches a batarang that Slade deflects with his blade, granting Bruce with enough time to follow up with a smoke bomb that detonates on impact. Bruce rolls into the thick smoke, his vision restored once the tactical lenses of his cowl click into place. Inside the cloud he can see that Slade has taken a quarter-turn to his left and remains frozen to focus his hearing. Up against Slade's heightened senses, there's no point in trying to outrun him. Slade is as persistent as they come, and the only way to stop him from giving chase is to put him down.

Bruce curls his hands into fists.

The ninjatō sings in the air as Slade brings a hard blow down on Bruce. It takes effort to block, and if not for the tough armour of Bruce's vambraces, it would have sliced through muscle and bone and left Bruce without a forearm. Bruce blocks several more in quick succession, forcing the sword to glance off the angled fin blades in a shower of sparks. Lunging again, Slade lodges the sword's edge in one of the blades, breaking the smooth transition of combat for a split second—long enough for Bruce to plant his feet and twist in an attempt to separate the man from the metal. He finds himself pressed up against Slade's side, too close for combat, but he's accomplished his goal. Slade won't be able to free his weapon and swing again, and he seems to realize it as soon as Bruce does.

The fix is simple: Slade releases the stuck blade and reaches for a second one.

It gives Bruce time to spin away with his new prize, yet Slade allows Bruce a moment to wrench the sword free and ready it. Once Bruce is properly armed, Slade wastes no time in advancing. The sound of metal striking metal rings out in the night as their swords meet. Bruce is hardly the experienced swordsman that Slade is, yet he parries each successive strike without difficulty; it's obvious that Slade is playing with him, but Bruce is more than capable of defending himself. Tiring Slade is an impossible goal, but frustrating him isn't out of the question.

They spar in near silence. The sirens in the background have faded out of focus, replaced by the clang of steel and the occasional grunt. Even the sound of their footsteps has been dampened as Bruce tries to focus on evading Slade's strikes. The swords meet with enough force that Bruce can feel it vibrate in his hands, but the strike doesn't land. Bruce evades and parries once more.

He's only as good as his enemy.

The fight comes to another near halt; this time, it happens when Slade puts his weight into a powerful blow that pushes Bruce's own sword back against him. Bruce grits his teeth, fighting to brace himself as Slade leans into him, his eye shining in the lone hole in his mask.

"You didn't tell me you liked to dance."

Bruce growls and forces his blade to the side. Sensing his opening, he takes a swing at Slade's head. It misses by a long shot, but it's his elbow he was trying to use, not his brass knuckles. He manages to drive his elbow into the side of Slade's head with a sharp crack. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to bother Slade. who frees a hand to grab Bruce's wrist and twists his ninjatō up between them, pressing its sharp edge against the throat of the cowl. Bruce can't feel the sword, but instead of trying to push back he goes still, keeping his eyes locked on Slade's.

"I'm not playing this game any longer, Slade," Bruce growls. pushing against Slade's resistance until his arm is in a more manageable position. The sword won't come down now unless Bruce wants it to, and Slade isn't trying to slice him open or throw him off.

"Why don't we call it even," Slade suggests. He's hardly even out of breath, despite this being far from his usual caliber of combat. He knows that Bruce is a legitimate threat, but this has been little more than child's play to him. Slade may as well have been fighting Bruce with _both_ eyes covered. "I'm sure we can come up with a better way to solve this problem."

Bruce bares his teeth. "If you tell me who put a bounty on my head, I won't have to take you in."

"I have a feeling you'll be doing more than _taking me in_ ," Slade says. It takes no time to click—Bruce had been so occupied with the threat of Lacey Towers that he'd assumed Slade was an accomplice. He hadn't considered that this isn't an assassination attempt at all.

It's _flirting_.

Bruce tugs against Slade's grip. Slade lets him back away without complaint.

"Should I assume you're ready to have a civil conversation?"

"I was ready for a civil conversation until you pulled that out," Bruce replies, eyeing the sword as Slade readies it once more. It's a gentle blow. Bruce catches the steel edge easily between the blades on his vambraces. It takes a single sharp jerk to shear the blade in half, and to add insult to injury, he tosses his own weapon on the ground at Slade's feet instead of handing it to him. It's a minor victory.

"Go home, Slade. I have enough to deal with right now. I'm not in the mood for this."

"You need a little excitement in your life, detective. You can't work all day _and_ all night." Slade picks up the unbroken blade and sheathes it. He doesn't spare a second glance for the broken one.

Bruce takes a breath and exhales it in a long sigh. "You're the last thing I need right now. If you're not going to kill me and you're not willing to provide answers, I have no use for you." Bruce turns away, directing his attention toward the smoking tower across the city. He manages to take a single step before he finds Slade's arm around his neck, the thick armour digging into his throat even through the cowl.

"I can be of use to you," Slade murmurs near his ear, pressing the bulk of his body against Bruce's own. He may not be encouraging Bruce to fight any longer, but he doesn't seem to have given up on raising Bruce's heart rate.

Bruce curls his fingers around Slade's wrist, as if to pull his hand away.

The pressure on his trachea increases. Bruce can feel Slade's free arm wind around his torso, and out of the corner of his eye he can see the flaked orange paint of Slade's mask. Slade rests his chin on Bruce's left shoulder, observing him with an intelligent eye that glitters in the depths of his helmet. The intimacy may be lost through the armour, but the intent isn't. Bruce swallows and hopes that Alfred isn't listening in. The comms have gone quiet, but Bruce is usually given space to focus on his combat.

"Struggle for me," Slade murmurs against his ear. "Prove that you want to leave."

Knowing that a sudden movement might provoke Slade further, Bruce tips his head back and exhales, allowing himself to go lax in Slade's grip. He lifts a hand and presses it to the side of Slade's helmet, miming a more tender touch. He lets his fingers linger against the temple before slipping further down over the cheek. He's done this before—practice makes perfect—but it's taking him a moment too long to find the hidden catch that will release the helmet from the neck of Slade's suit. Slade, well aware of what Bruce is attempting to do, laughs again and shoves him away. By the time Bruce manages to right himself, Slade has already withdrawn a staff. He's nothing if not persistent.

"I'm leaving, Slade," Bruce says firmly. "We're done here."

He hardly makes it to the roof's edge when his feet slide out from underneath him. A grappling hook has dug into his boot and entangled his ankle in the wire of Slade's grappling tool, and he finds himself quickly being dragged backward along the rooftop with nothing to grab onto. He attempts to twist, aiming with the blades on his forearms, but before he can sever the wire he finds the end of Slade's staff hurtling toward his face.

Bruce blocks the staff's blunt edge with one hand. To his surprise, Slade doesn't force it any further. They stare at one another in silence, Bruce glaring from the ground and Slade standing over him, his staff in one hand and a grappling gun of his own in the other. Bruce shows his teeth again, prepared to reprimand Slade for obstructing him, but it's only while he's quietly seething that he notices something's off.

It's too quiet on the rooftop. The faint whine of background noise in his ears has disappeared, and not because he's been hyper-focused on Slade. He can hear Slade quite well. It's the rest of the world that's gone quiet. It's strange—there's plenty in the city for his tech to pick up, but none of the information is being relayed.

His comms have been disrupted.

"You keep telling me as much, but you haven't left. As much as you try to fight it, I know you enjoy these games."

"I'm not playing _games_ with you, Slade." Bruce shoves the staff aside and reaches down to sever the wire and pull the grappling hook free. He manages to dislodge it from his boot, but before he can unwrap his ankle he finds the end of the staff pressed against his chest.

"Then walk away."

Bruce doesn't. It becomes more apparent with every passing second that Slade is waiting for something. He likely wants Bruce to strike back. Maybe he's actually _hoping_ for it. Slade rarely comes looking for a fight without good reason. Even with the promise of payment, he always seems to want something more. This time, he appears to want the satisfaction of seeing Bruce worked up. He's toyed with Bruce this way before, but it's never been about the fight. It’s about what happens _after_ the fight. He doesn’t want Bruce to leave. He just wants to know that Bruce is willing to submit to him.

Bruce slides his hand along the shaft of the staff, searching for yet another hidden switch. He keeps his grip firm as the staff deactivates and retracts neatly, one end pulling away from Bruce's chest as the other slips out of Slade's hand. If he's willing to give up so easily, he must have gotten what he's come for.

Slade lowers himself onto one knee and delicately untangles the wire from Bruce's boot.

"I don't know why you're still here," Bruce says finally.

Slade doesn't respond until his task has been completed. He might know that Bruce is lying. It wouldn't be hard to tell. "I can offer you information, if you're willing to offer something in return."

 _Of course_ , Bruce thinks. He pulls his leg back. Slade doesn't react to the deliberate widening of his thighs, but Bruce can tell that he's paying careful attention to the language of Bruce's body. "You know I enjoy spontaneity."

He lifts the staff and activates it again. The weapon jerks open to its full length in his hand, then retracts as Bruce presses the switch a final time. The compact weapon is formidable in the hands of someone like Slade, and Bruce suspects that there are more secrets hidden within it that he's not aware of. He knows that it's capable of firing non-lethal rounds. For now, he's alright with not knowing the rest.

Thoughtful, Bruce reaches forward and hooks the staff's edge below Slade's mask, then uses it to guide him forward.

"Mm, that _is_ spontaneous," Slade murmurs. He allows himself to be drawn closer, bracing a hand on either side of Bruce's torso. "The hilt of a ninjatō is smaller. It would be a comfortable fit."

Bruce tries his best not to react to Slade's implications, but he can feel his body flushing with warmth at the thought. He won't ever agree to it, but if Slade enjoys the idea enough, Bruce may be able to file it away for later use. "Maybe that's best saved for another night. If you want payment, I decide the cost."

This time he can hear Slade exhale. "You have a request?"

"A stipulation." Bruce pulls Slade closer with the staff before flinging it across the roof. They're close enough now that Bruce could—if Slade were to show his face—kiss him. With a single swift motion he reverses their positions, flipping Slade onto his back; surprisingly, he hardly receives so much as a complaint in return. "I need a rain check on whatever you have in mind. I'll cash it in when I have more time. What I need now is information."

Slade's eye narrows as Bruce lifts a leg and pivots over his torso on one knee, and he reaches for Bruce's hip. "After all the fun we've had, you're going to walk away now?"

"I'm not going anywhere." Now facing the opposite direction, Bruce plants his weight firmly on Slade's chest. He can feel Slade gathering his cape in one hand, but ignores it in favour of unbuckling the leather belt slung over Slade's hips. He runs his fingers over the second belt anchoring Slade's gear, then slides his hand down to the thick material covering his groin.

"You couldn't make it easier for me?"

"I thought this _was_ easy," Slade says, giving Bruce's cape a tug.

Bruce raps his knuckles lightly against the protective gear beneath Slade's pants. He gets a sharp inhale for his trouble, which confirms his theory about Slade's penchant for getting off on violence, public acts of indecency, or both. Getting Slade to drop his guard is an impossible task, but getting him hard has always been easy to accomplish. "Next time, leave this at home if you're not planning to use it."

"I’ll keep that in mind." Slade moves as if to push himself upright, but stops once he realizes that Bruce has already started to unzip him. On the rooftops Bruce tends to rely on augmented vision, but without it he finds himself relying on memory to navigate the complexities of Slade's armour. He's not nearly as well-protected as Bruce is, luckily. It's quick work to find the edge of the compression guard beneath Slade's pants, and with the protective layer pulled aside it isn't difficult for Bruce to find Slade's cock and free it.

"Gloves off," Slade reminds him. Bruce usually does remove his gloves—cowl too, if he's able, and more armour if the occasion calls for it—but normally he has plenty of time to enjoy their encounters. Tonight he doesn't have the luxury of time or enjoyment. He's not going to bother removing his gloves when he doesn't plan to use his hands.

Without acknowledging the request, Bruce leans down and covers Slade's cock with his mouth instead. It earns him a low groan and the sound of a helmet hitting the stone rooftop. Slade doesn't remark on his eagerness, so Bruce rewards him by first pressing his tongue against Slade's cock as he pulls up, then immediately sucking him down again. A blowjob is more effective at shutting Slade up than a dry remark would ever be. Bruce knows him well enough to exploit it, and he does so shamelessly, ducking down to mouth at Slade's cock and letting it slide between his lips and rest on his tongue once he's slicked it to his satisfaction.

It's a good thing Slade thought ahead to find a way to block his comms. He could never find the words to explain this sort of conduct in the field, let alone in the face of a crisis. The ambient noise and intercepted conversations from the GCPD would also be horribly distracting. He far prefers the silence because it allows him to remain focused whether he's fighting _or_ fucking. Luckily, the audio block all but renders the city around them silent, save for the sounds of his mouth sliding over slick skin. As long as Bruce doesn't allow his thoughts to drift to the location of their act or the events happening around them, it won't bother him quite as much.

Eager to keep himself occupied, he focuses instead on the sounds closest to them, the ones he can hear through the cowl: Slade's soft hisses of approval, the way he groans each time Bruce swallows around his cock, the scrape of boots against stone, the sound of Slade's glove sliding over the material of Bruce's suit.

In the beginning, it hadn't taken long for Bruce to learn that Slade isn't shy about asking for what he wants. As quickly as he'd discovered Slade's shamelessness, he'd also learned a lesson about Slade's preference for action over words. He's been dealing with Slade for so long that his habits are no longer a surprise, and it's made him less difficult to deal with. During sex, at least. They've learned to compromise in the face of disagreement and Slade respects the boundaries that Bruce has set—

—so when Slade tightens his grip on Bruce's cape and begins to rock his hips, Bruce doesn't panic. He's familiar with this maneuver. Slade's using the rhythm that Bruce has set to bury his cock in Bruce's throat, and now that Bruce has taken the full length of his cock into his mouth once already, he likely won't give up on his goal.

Bruce could easily put a stop to it. He could put a stop to most things Slade does, sex included, but the groans he earns each time his lips sink to the base of Slade's cock are hardly a deterrent. Even the fact that Slade is willingly lying on his back without a hand fisted in Bruce's hair is a pleasant surprise. Better yet, he's letting Bruce dictate the pace without complaint, and even with Bruce's cape held in his fingers, Slade isn't attempting to take control. In fact, this feels surprisingly tender for Slade. His free hand roams over Bruce's ass and thighs while Bruce mouths at his cock, a lazy rub rather than a frantic grope.

Bruce can't bring himself to ruin the moment.

He rubs a hand of his own along the inside of Slade's thigh. Whatever this started out as, it's become a self-indulgent display of worship. Bruce presses open-mouthed kisses along Slade's cock and traces the head with the tip of his tongue, careful to keep his head tilted to avoid dirtying the edges of his cowl. Despite the minor alterations he's had to make, the leisurely pace seems to be wearing Slade's patience thin. When Bruce stops to mouth at the base of his cock, Slade digs his fingers into Bruce's thigh and rocks his hips up. It's a demonstration of his frustration with the lack of Bruce's mouth, and it's somewhat flattering, too. Bruce can even gauge the elevation of his respiration rate from atop his chest. Slade's getting close, but Bruce can still have fun with him.

“Hope you're not in a hurry,” Bruce murmurs, once he's cleared his throat. He wraps his gloved fingers around Slade's cock and gives him a slow, careful stroke. Behind him, Slade laughs, low and breathy.

“I have all night.”

Satisfied with the impatient edge in Slade's voice, Bruce wraps his lips around him and pulls off slowly, using his tongue to tease around the head of his cock. “Am I going too fast?”

“I should put you on your back and show you what fast is,” Slade growls. He rolls his hips up again, but once Bruce pins him in place and lets Slade's cock slide past his lips, his impatience seems to fizzle out.

With his mouth full of Slade’s cock, Bruce isn't concerned in the least about fighting to maintain a position of power. He swallows, pulls up far enough to lap at the fluid leaking from Slade's cock, then lets Slade sheath himself in his throat again. The cowl's structure creates some restriction, but as long as Bruce relaxes his jaw and throat, the sensation isn't wholly uncomfortable. He doesn't mind doing it, either. Sucking cock can be enjoyable for him, and this is what Slade likes best. If Bruce were to remove the cowl and let Slade see how eager he is to swallow his cock, Slade would curl his hands around Bruce’s throat to feel himself inside it.

That thought, too, makes Bruce flush with warmth. He spreads his thighs, flattens himself along the front of Slade’s body, and begins to roll his hips against Slade's chest plates. It's yet another display for Slade's enjoyment, meant to provide visual inspiration as Bruce lifts his head to breathe. As much as he genuinely enjoys Slade's cock in his mouth, the only physical pleasure Bruce can feel is the slight friction from his compression shorts. Even the increased enthusiasm of Slade's groping does little for him, though it's flattering how easily he's been able to bring Slade to the edge this time. Bruce knows that, given the opportunity, Slade would dig his fingers into Bruce's armour and tear through it to reach his skin. Some day, Bruce may let him try.

“That's enough,” Slade breathes, having grown impatient at last. He tugs on the cape and Bruce acquiesces, pulling up and away long enough to fill his lungs with fresh air. He's hot inside his own suit now, breathless, his jaw beginning to ache; Slade may have superhuman endurance, but it seems even he can only handle so much direct stimulation. Bruce is glad for that much. “You're not suffocating yourself for this.”

Slow and deliberate, Bruce grinds his pelvis down against the hard metal plates covering Slade’s chest. Slade gropes at him again, squeezing his ass through his suit with an appreciative noise. It's almost enough to make him want to pull his own cock out. “You think I don't want you to come down my throat?”

Slade winds Bruce's cape in his hand, reining him in like a dog on a leash until he sits upright. “I'd like to see you sit on it instead.”

Bruce considers unclasping the cape and going back down on him just to get things moving. Slade's voice has grown deeper, and there's more fluid beading at the tip of his cock that Bruce wants to taste. He reaches forward and brushes the pad of his thumb over it. It would be impossible to feel a shiver through the armour, but he can see Slade's cock twitch in the dark. “If I let you fuck me, will you give me the information I need?”

Slade chuckles. For a moment, Bruce finds himself half-hoping for a yes. “You're doing this for _information_? Do you treat all of your informants so well?”

”Consider this a special case.” Bruce forms a seal around Slade’s cock with his lips and massages the head with his tongue. He takes his time pulling off and Slade responds with a shameless moan that can probably be heard from the street. Another wave of warmth washes over Bruce as he remembers that the world may be blocked out for him, but it doesn't mean that the world has blocked _him_ out. He could fuck Slade here on the roof. He could sit on Slade's cock with the city watching over them, ride him until they're spent. “You can have whatever you want if I can have a name.”

Slade hums, grip tightening on Bruce's cape until it pulls at his shoulders. “How... _generous_ ," he says, sounding suspiciously strained. His cock is still leaking on Bruce's tongue. “You know that I would have given you the information for free."

With his mouth halfway down Slade's cock once more, Bruce slows to a halt, but his realization comes a moment too late; Slade's fingers dig into his back and his cock jerks against Bruce's tongue, flooding his mouth with the first warm pulse of fluid before Bruce manages to pull away.

Slade gets off on this. Of course he does.

It takes little time for Bruce to climb to his feet. He narrowly avoids kicking Slade in the helmet on the way up, and he doesn't spare a second glance at the semen streaked over Slade's armoured stomach. He wipes the sides of his own cowl, just in case, and spits the rest on the ground. “This was a waste of time. If you were hired to keep me busy, you've accomplished your goal.”

Slade is far slower to sit upright, and he spends a moment tucking himself away and readjusting the protective layers beneath his outer clothing. Bruce has no way of knowing if he's genuinely pleased with the way things have turned out, or if that was in fact his goal at all. At this point, he doesn't particularly care.

“You have a problem in this city, Batman. I know it. You know it.”

Bruce presses his lips together and glances in the direction of the tower. The fires have been extinguished, but smoke is still curling out of the dark hole in the glass, drifting lazily in the breeze. There are no sirens wailing in the distance anymore. While the fire department has been helping evacuate the tower, Bruce has only succeeded in losing time. He shouldn't have expected any more from Slade. “And I have you in my city. Hard not to draw conclusions.”

“Perhaps.” Slade seems to be following Bruce's gaze, contemplating the spectacle across the rooftops. For somebody so notoriously dangerous, he doesn't strike an intimidating figure in this light. For only a moment, Bruce wishes he could see the profile of his face. “This is what I know. Roman Sionis wasn't the target of the attack. The inhabitants were never meant to be injured.”

Slade turns his head. Bruce holds his gaze in silence.

“Was he the one who put you up to this?” When Slade doesn't respond, Bruce lets his breath out in a frustrated growl. “If somebody put a price on my head, I need to know.”

“You know all that I do,” Slade says.

“But _you_ know who's responsible for the blast. You know who they were targeting. You knew that I'd be there, you knew to block my communication channels, you had a _reason_ for keeping me away—”

“I only know that Sionis wasn't the target,” Slade repeats firmly. “But since you're so concerned... he paid well to ensure that you were occupied. Dead or alive. He didn't specify.” He pulls himself to his feet and retrieves his discarded staff. Bruce forces himself to swallow another accusation, fists still clenched at his side and itching to make contact. Whoever _he_ is, he must be plotting something else. Bruce should never have allowed himself to be fooled like this.

“Congratulations. At least one of us is walking away satisfied.” Bruce turns his back on Slade, eager to get himself as far away from this mistake as possible. “Get out of Gotham. Leave now. If I find out you were involved in this in any way, you won't be this lucky again.” He considers warning Slade not to get himself mixed up in whatever business is going on, but he would be telling water not to be wet. Plenty of men are as charismatic as they are murderous. Slade, at least, follows a code. It's unfortunate that it doesn't work in Bruce's favour.

Slade is quiet for a moment. Bruce doesn't have to look back to know how close he's gotten while Bruce's back has been turned. He can almost feel Slade behind him, as aware of his presence as he would be his own shadow. “Watch yourself, Batman. You're up against something new. He isn't here to make friends... he won't be as kind to you as I am.”

Bruce ignores that and tries to make a brief mental list of which of his _friends_ may be able to provide intel. If he's up against someone new, it's possible that there may not be enough information on the streets yet. He'll need to wait for the word to spread through Gotham's underground. Slade was right in saying that Bruce understands money's influence in Gotham. He knows who can be bought, who can be intimidated, and who he can rely on to provide valuable information. It's all a matter of placing his trust in the right people. And Slade—who is already gone when Bruce turns his head—isn't one of them.

Clearly, he hasn't yet learned his lesson.

“Alfred.”

Radio silence.

If Slade managed to jam the network signal, his departure should restore Bruce's link to the Batcomputer. He tries a second time; not only is Alfred unresponsive, but even an attempt to reboot the Batsuit's computer system reveals that his access to the satellite network is still blocked. Even the cowl's HUD—the built-in display that he should be able to access even without his satellite link—refuses to cooperate. He'd assumed that Slade had only temporarily blocked transmission, but whatever he's done appears to have shorted out his tech altogether. It's one more problem that he'll need to take care of. Unfortunately, he doesn't have enough time to worry about troubleshooting right now. Reaching the tower and inspecting the scene of the blast is imperative while it's still fresh. Digital reconstruction of the crime scene will be next to impossible, but Bruce has worked crime scenes without using tech to log clues and evidence. He'll simply need to do it the old-fashioned way.

Weary, Bruce rests his hands on the stone handrail and gazes across the city. Even without enhanced vision he can see the faint red-and-blue light show from the emergency responders at the base of the tower. Having access to the GCPD and GCFD communication channels is invaluable, but the onsite units won't get in his way if he doesn't want them to. Until he inspects the scene himself he'll have no way of knowing what he'll find. It could be a body, it could be destroyed evidence... and if Slade was successful in keeping him away long enough for this new arrival to complete their work, he might find nothing at all. Whoever it is, they appear to have no concerns about endangering dozens of citizens. If he or she is as dangerous as Slade suggests, Bruce will need to gather as much information as possible.

He doesn't yet know what he's up against, but there's only one way to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written to celebrate the casting of DCEU Slade... and has been resurrected for the same reason. Based loosely on events in Batman: Arkham Origins.


End file.
